Danior watched the family across the breakfast table. Moira was fussing over Patrin, trying to get him to eat like a ‘little gentleman’ but Patrin was having none of it… good for him. The twins were bickering. With growing annoyance Danior watched this develop into flicking food at each other; which became throwing food until finally Shelta picked up the pitcher of milk. “Enough! Shelta, put that down, SIT down and both of you eat your food in silence.” Shelta sat down in a sulk and the twins reverted to glaring at each other for the rest of the meal. Moira hadn’t even lifted her head from cutting up Patrin’s meat. Danior caught a glimpse of Silvanus’ face, just before he bowed his head to his plate. The smirk, it was appearing more and more these days. It could mean nothing of course, it was just a smirk on the face of a teenager – the wind in the bush, nothing to fear. But Silvanus was a psychopath, so it could mean that he, Danior, Moira’s brother and strong right hand, was in danger – the tiger in the bush, death. Survivors are those that treat every rustle of every bush as if it were a tiger. Danior hid his own smirk behind the rim of his tea cup. Danior was a survivor. Over recent weeks, Danior had become concerned about the twin’s antics within the Gold’s little empire. The Borough was like nothing Danior had experienced before. It wasn’t a village, or a settlement it was… It was like a… a slow, lumbering hulk, a kind of monster. It’s citizens didn’t live in it, they infested it. Even the buildings of The Borough, built from the bloody ruins of the bombs, were like growths of crumbling re-used bricks, leaning on each other for support. The whole environment of The Borough had always been oppressive. And now the weekly fleecing of the inhabitants and the random and not so random acts of cruelty inflicted by the twins were having an effect on the monster. He’d seen it in the eyes of even the children, their body language, the way they sank into the shadows whenever he passed. Something was brewing in the belly of this beast. Joe rose from the coach, arching his back and groaning; middle-aged men shouldn’t sleep on coaches, that was a young man’s game; always had been. Once again he gave serious thought to having someone make one of those folding couch/bed things… or even just a bloody hammock would do – and be cheaper. First order of business was to wander around the kitchen in his underwear and wide-open silk dressing gown, cigar in one hand, mug of strong tea in the other while he contacted his lieutenants. Silja watched from the kitchen table, used to the unfortunate view every time Joe turned. Her instructions had been given last night ‘Anneka is not to be out of your sight for an instant.’ Right now, the five-year-old was out of sight under the table painting Silja’s nails with her mother’s best nail polishes… three colours so far. Silja would deal with Kirsten’s fury after just one more coffee. Sharing a tiny bed with an excited five-year-old had been… was there a polite word? With his upper managers now mustering the troops, Joe got dressed. Factory first to give the orphans their orders… no bullets would be produced today. Today his rag-tag juvenile workforce would be busy posting pictures of Finny, along with a hefty reward, on every vertical surface the little buggers could reach. Then down the road to the NFPD station house for a doughnut and to find out what they had learned from Booger’s autopsy thing. Back in his familiar work clothes of patched brown duster, old tee-shirt and worn blue high-tops, Joe just had time to kiss a sleepy Kirsten, lift his sawn-off from the hat stand and head out the front door. Officer Kopkage, pleasantly unaware of Joe Spivey’s forthcoming visit was just opening the autopsy report he had been given even he was taking his coat off. Autopsy’s were carried out at the Union Medical Centre on the edge of town. New Flagstaff’s residents avoided the place if they possibly could, preferring to use the offshoot clinic next to the Town Hall. The UMC had a certain, reputation. More people went in than ever came out, not a good reputation to have for a hospital. But they did have a really good and really well funded, pathology department. It was also really hard to gain access to… unless you were a corpse, or soon expected to be one. Strangely, though, the pathology department was also the place where the annual orphanage medicals were carried out. Someone should really check that out. Anyway, Kop read the report. Then he rubbed the page between thumb and forefinger to check that there weren’t two pages stuck together. There weren’t. Kop put the single page down on the well stained blotter in front of him and read the box titled ‘Conclusion’ for the third time. “Blunt force trauma to the Occipita and Parietal Lobes via a single blow from behind. Death instantaneous. Post mortem minor lacerations and contusions to the face. Also present were minor facial burns from the acidic content via contact with canine faeces on or around the time of death.” Underneath the conclusion box was the hand written: “Body to be kept for anatomical study.” “Poor bugger,” Kop thought. “Born, orphaned, murdered, dissected and all likely before you got your first fuck.” He tossed the report into his out tray. There isn’t much to steal from a rag and bone merchant, everything they collected was something no longer wanted. And it wasn’t just rags and bones either, that was just something to shout as you went up and down the streets. Kids would run out with bundles of old clothes, sacks of bottles, broken ‘things’ and even things they weren’t supposed to take but would earn them one of the coloured balloons the rag and bone collector would have flying from his cart as a reward for anything they gave him. It also often earned then a sore arse from Mum or Dad for their trouble, but once it was on the cart it was his and so not his concern. Once collected, the carts would take their stuff to one of the merchant's warehouses where it was sorted into bins by the destitute or just plain thirsty women and children of The Borough. Rags, yes, they could be picked apart. Bones, yes, great source for glue or potash. Bottles, of course and even broken things could be further broken down into parts and sold to those who needed them. One the less salubrious takings of the rag and bone men were bottles of urine. Decanted into large carboys, these would be sold to tanners to soften the hides prior to scraping the fat off them. Soot too was collected in bags and could be sold to make inks and dyes. So think of the rag and bone men as recyclers if you will. Anyway, none of this stuff was worth much except in quantity. So what the two kids climbing over the wall of Krook’s Rag & Bone Merchant thought they were going to do with whatever they managed to filch and then climb back out again with is something only they would know. Not that their plans would come to fruition, because, as they were sitting on top of the wall, one of them and then the other looked up to see a face at a window, a face soon to be seen plastered all over New Flagstaff and beyond. The Finny Stories In chronological order: 000 Finny Intro 001 The Locket 002 Rats 003 A Christmas Finny 004 The Secret Adventurer’s Club 005 The Secret Adventurer’s Club: Second Adventure 006 Finny’s Birthday 007 Union Candy 008 Then There Were Three 009 Then There Were Four Again – Sort Of (WIP)